


Too Dear for My Possessing

by randolhllee



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Angst, F/F, Goodbyes, post-Instinct, referenced suicidal ideation, semi-love letter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:15:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randolhllee/pseuds/randolhllee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of letters further developing the story between Myka and HG, beginning with something HG might have written after Myka left Boone, even if she never intended it to be read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day began slowly for Myka, an odd occurrence after a two-week-long onslaught of early-morning calls and crises. For the first time in weeks, Myka was able to settle into her favorite armchair in the dusty light of dawn with her tea and a book.

Early rising was a habit that came in and out of her life like tides, beginning after a few of the larger fights with her parents in high school and college. Then, it only lasted a few days, and each day she slept in a little more until she was back to normal. There were a few more high periods during her time in the Secret Service, and then Sam died. That time, it was months before her eyes opened after the sun’s.

Early-morning Myka had resurfaced at various points throughout her time at the Warehouse, but usually only for a few days at a time. After Helena’s betrayal, though, she had almost come to consider the change permanent before she finally managed to return to what Pete called “sane people sleeping.” Boone had, of course, ruined that streak.

She curled the hand holding her hug into her chest to absorb its warmth just as she soaked up the words on the delicate pages in front of her. She had trailed her fingers delicately over the familiar spines of the books on her shelves before coming to rest them on that particular morning’s magnetic work: the Complete Works of Shakespeare. Of course, Artie had scoffed that he did not know how they could call it ‘complete’ in good conscious before looking nervous and clamming up. Myka still had not gotten the whole story from him, but she knew she’d get it out of him eventually.

The Bard held a special place in her heart, as she imagined he did for many bookworms. Though her brain often felt on fire with synapses connecting the words to nearly everything in her life, since her return from Boone she found that every metaphor, simile, and sentiment seemed to fit only one thing, or rather _person_. This realization was a small thought that seemed destined to lodge in the back of her mind until something knocked it loose. Until then, she was unwilling to deal with it.

“Myka?”

She looked up from the pages, startled to see a bed-headed Abigail pad to a halt in the doorway connecting the living room to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Myka ventured. The other woman looked barely awake enough to walk, much less navigate the English language.

“G’morning.” The phrase was split by a wide yawn. “Sorry. Did you get a call?” Abigail looked confused, and was obviously trying to reconcile Myka’s laid-back quietude with the hectic mornings of the last weeks.

Myka shook her head. “No, just up early,” she answered quietly. Abigail seemed unwilling to pursue the matter further.

“Do you want coffee?” she inquired.

Myka held up her mug of tea in lieu of an answer. “Can I help you with breakfast?” she asked politely.

Abigail yawned again and shook her head. “I’ll be fine. If there’s no early emergency, Pete’s been demanding pancakes and I lost a bet with Claudia over who had to make them.”

Myka smiled at the thought. “Shouldn’t Pete be making them, if he wants them so badly?”

Abigail looked alarmed at that. “I know I haven't been here long, but do I really want to know what would happen if we set Pete loose in the kitchen?”

Myka considered this for the briefest of moments and her eyes widened. “You’re right. Call me if you need anything, though.”

“I will.” Abigail shuffled around before turning back to Myka, still squinting the sleep from her head. “Actually, would you mind getting the paper and the mail?”

“Not at all.” Abigail nodded her thanks and headed back into the kitchen, stretching as she went. Myka smiled absently after her before carefully closing her book and rising from the welcoming recesses of the armchair.

The grass outside was dewy on her bare feet as she took the shortcut down to the mailbox. The mail was delivered with the paper before the sun ever rose, another quirk about Univille that Myka had long given up on understanding. That day’s mail looked like nothing special: a gaming magazine for Claudia (which she had somehow half-convinced Artie was “research”), a sporting catalogue addressed to Pete, a few advertisements, and what looked like the utilities bill. Underneath all that, however, was a personal letter addressed to Myka.

Myka frowned at it in puzzlement. She had rarely, if ever, gotten a physical letter since coming to work at the Warehouse; communicating by email was easier than explaining why a formerly promising Secret Service agent now lived in Univille, South Dakota.

She returned to the house in absent-mindedly, still studying the letter even as she placed the rest of the mail on the hall table and went to the kitchen to give Abigail the paper. The other woman was slumped against the counter, slowly mixing eggs and flour.

“Is everything alright, Myka?” Myka looked up, startled. She had been standing in the kitchen for longer than was normal, still pondering the letter and the vaguely familiar hand that had penned the address. Where had she seen that before?

“Yeah, I’m, I’m fine.” She stuttered a little, still preoccupied. Before Abigail could speak again, Myka swiftly left the room and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She closed the door silently and sat down on her bed with the covers pulled around her legs before slipping her finger beneath the flap of the envelope and freeing the letter within. She breathed sharply as she immediately recognized the handwriting.

* * *

 

_My dearest Myka,_

_I would begin this missive with words expressing some polite sentiment, a rote introduction of sorts into what I wish to say, but there is little chance that you will ever read my words. The manner in which we said good-bye leaves little doubt in my mind of what we shall be to each other from now on: old friends who see each other little, and say even less of importance, giving me little reason to ever send this to you._

_I know this is not what either of us would have wished, given a choice in the matter. We have meant much to each other these last few years. I was truly happy to see you again, just as it truly pained me to see you drive away; I could feel a physical ache in my side when the bandage of your presence was peeled away, revealing the wound underneath._

_This is the reason for my writing to you. I am wounded, damaged, Myka, in ways that no one can understand, yet I both suspect and fear that you can, somehow. You have been with me at some of my lowest moments, and have also witnessed my true happiness, of which you were the cause. You see me as I truly am._

_You see me, yet you do not heed what your knowledge tells you: that I am a monster, that I am ripped full of pain that would have me kill myself, yet I am too arrogant and self-flagellating to contemplate the deed without taking the rest of the world with me. I am dangerous. My single-minded pursuit of a means by which to dull my pain has lead me to destruction again and again, whether it be by a renewed ice age or the removal of my own memories. I can see by your eyes that you would gladly stand by my side, and even aid me, as I live with these wounds._

_These wounds did not begin with you, Myka, and I fear they would not end with you either, but would spread like the disease I have come to regard them as. Even before Christina, I was a woman apart from the world, meant to live in constant, dizzying circles of motion around others rather than truly with them. My distance from the world only grew after Christina’s death. I have you to thank for bringing me in a little closer, and making me feel more present than I have ever before felt. You ground me, as a metal rod for lightning._

_But I cannot allow you to do so any longer, Myka. In my very core, I am no longer fully human. I look with abhorrence on the thought of subjecting you to the yawning abyss I contain in my chest; it is something the likes of which I hope you never have to witness again._

_You called me a coward, for many reasons, no doubt, and I cannot say I disagree. I am running away to hide like a child caught in an endless and grotesque game. I have that peculiarly British attitude, I suppose—if one can only keep a stiff upper lip and serve tea on time, one can survive._

_That is the most cowardly part of this matter. You are supportive, and warm, and kind—quite the opposite of what I deserve, and I cannot keep a stiff upper lip around you. You know what I am. I cannot hide away from you, nor put on a mask in hopes that my inner self will one day match the confidence and content of my outward appearance. This is perhaps cold comfort to you, but you must know that any people who fill my life now are by necessity only fellow actors in a fictitious life of my own writing. You always did like my writing, although I imagine you will say in this work, I've gone too far. Those actors are necessary to fill out the parts of my play, but they will never replace what you have been to me._

_For your sake, and admittedly my own, I must say goodbye to you in the form in which I most love you. You have been my friend, my confidante, and I cannot adequately express my gratitude to you simply for existing as you are. However, the time has come in which, to spare you what I am and the continuance of the pain I have already caused you, I must take my leave._

_Please know that you will always have my heart, but I beg that you keep it in a dark attic of your glorious mind, only to be visited years from now when I am a mere dusty memory, to be looked at with a wisp of fondness and old memories, and then put away again under the eaves. Do not let the ghost of our ‘perhaps’ haunt you; I will take it on, breathe life into it, and allow it to live in my mind if you will only lay it to rest._

_I love you, darling, and I wish you more good than I can say._

_Yours,_  
 _Helena_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read this the first time I posted it, I decided that the story needed a little more than just the letters, so I've updated this first chapter to include the circumstances under which Myka receives the letter, and the format will continue for the rest of the story, alternating between Myka and HG. Let me know if it gets confusing!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myka's reply, and a little of HG's life.

It was already growing dark when Helena pulled her car up the driveway, through the light streaming from the windows, and into the darkened garage. Though she had left her lab at the same time every night in the weeks since Myka left, errands came to mind each day that pushed her arrival further and further into the night.

When she turned off the engine, Helena stared at the center of the steering wheel for a brief moment, breathing in and out as she had once been taught to do by her kempo instructors. The moment stretched to its breaking point, and she stepped tiredly out of the car to retrieve the plastic bags in the back seat.

The warm air and light from the house hit her the moment she opened the door into the kitchen, and she paused, momentarily occupied by the contrast between herself and her surroundings. Even as she heaved the heavy bags onto the counter and grasped the edge of the nearest chair, desperate to ground herself in Nate’s warm house, a magnetic force pulled at her to return to her car and drive away into the cold night. Everything in her cried for motion, for flight; she was a winter woman caught in summer’s lands, and it was time to go.

This immediate need to leave came to her upon her arrival home each night, and on that night as on every other, she looked for the impetus of her usual decision to stay.

“Adelaide?” Helena called, just loudly enough that she could be heard in the adjacent rooms. The girl was meant to do homework in the dining room every night, just as her father was surely upstairs in his lamp-lit office.

Helena stepped lightly into the dining room and rested her hands on the doorframe as she regarded the empty room. She crossed to the workspace Adelaide had established on the table’s protective pad, where she felt the chair and determined that it had been recently vacated.

Without a word, but not without a small smile to herself, she returned to the kitchen to play the next move in her game with her almost-child.

She busied herself at the stove, reheating the spaghetti and meatballs she had found on the top shelf of the refrigerator. When she turned around to retrieve a fork, the bowl of mint-chocolate chip ice cream she had set out only moments before was gone, leaving only a rapidly-evaporating ring of frost on the granite counter.

When she carried her plate into the dining room, she was met with a bright and slightly sticky smile.

“Did you see me?”

Helena smiled softly at the child she had grown to love so much. “No, darling.”

“Well, did you _hear_ me?” Adelaide pressed.

Helena spun the first strands of pasta onto her fork and made a mock-serious face. “Children who are caught stealing food do _not_ get to eat it.”

“But you didn’t catch me,” Adelaide pointed out with the delighted air of one who has found the lone loophole in their opponent’s argument.

“No, I didn’t,” Helena admitted proudly, gracing Adelaide with a genuine grin. The girl was the only one privileged enough to see those now. “And I suppose, since you’ve already stuck your germ-covered spoon back into the bowl…” Adelaide laughed at Helena’s lighthearted attempts at disappointment.

Helena smiled down at her plate and kept eating, though she watched out of the corner of her eye as Adelaide left the room, still laughing. She sunk back into her thoughts, idly moving pasta from plate to mouth without really registering her own actions. When a bowl slid onto the table next to her a few moments later, she looked up in surprise.

“Thank you, dear.” She emerged from her vacant thoughts a moment too late to pull Adelaide into an affectionate embrace; the little girl was already halfway around the table, returning to homework and her own ice cream.

“Is your friend Myka coming back?” It was only when she heard Adelaide’s voice that Helena realized she had involuntarily caught herself up in empty thoughts again, leaving the room silent for several long moments. She shook her head as if to clear it of malaise.

“I don’t suppose so,” she answered cautiously. “She lives fairly far away. Why do you ask?”

Adelaide shrugged, not looking up from her ice cream. “A letter came in the mail today. I think it’s from her.”

Helena was seized with a moment of shock before she shook it off and asked as casually as she could, “Oh? Is it with the rest of the mail?”

Adelaide nodded and raised her head to study Helena’s face. Helena could not quite bring herself to look at the girl, so she absorbed herself in raising small spoonfuls of ice cream to her mouth. Without speaking, Adelaide slipped once more from her chair. When she returned, she placed an envelope carefully on the table next to Helena and returned to her side of the table.

The small piece of paper, marked with just a few words penned in Myka’s neat script, threatened to suck Helena in like a black hole that one has theorized about, but which has never before actually been seen. Furthermore, a black hole from which there is no certainty of return. Before Adelaide could settle herself back into the tall chair, Helena tore her gaze from the envelope and made as sincere a smile as she could mustere.

“Adelaide, darling? Why don’t you see if your father would like some ice cream.” Adelaide tipped her head to the side for a moment before acquiescing, once more padding out of the room. Helena sighed lightly; she loved Adelaide’s precociousness, but at times she suspected that Adelaide observed more of Helena’s inner turmoil than was strictly desirable.

A magnetic force drew Helena’s eyes back to the simple envelope. Although she had nearly stopped breathing, her heart seemed to be beating a faster and faster tattoo against her ribcage, a biological oddity of the fight-or-flight response that would have intrigued her under any other circumstances. Quickly, silently, prayerfully, she unstuck the flap and removed Myka’s letter.

* * *

 

_Dear Helena,_

_I’m not sure how your letter reached me, but if you sent it yourself, I don’t know how you expected me to respond. Your letter was so uniquely you, Helena: full of conviction and a dark beauty, but in some ways a fantasy that I can’t quite believe._

_You have never been a monster, Helena. Your pain is part of what makes you so beautifully human, even if it hurts. Removing yourself from the Warehouse does not protect me or any of us—don’t you know that I would be happier with you here? You’ve always felt the need to punish yourself for Christina’s death, but it’s time to stop. If she was anything like you, she wouldn’t have wanted it this way. You can’t keep blaming yourself._

_As for what we are, it is not your decision. In some ways, yes, you can make a choice not to see me and force me to abide by it, but it’s unworthy of you. Maybe it’s my stubbornness showing, but I won’t stop writing to you now._

_This is not Victorian England, Helena. No one expects you to keep a stiff upper lip about everything you’ve been through. You don’t have to bear this alone. There are people who can help, professionals, who can help you reach some peace of mind for yourself._

_I know you have the will-power and strength to survive this without me. I never sought nor expected to fix you. The only true pain you have ever caused me was knowing that you see yourself as a monster, and that the depth of hurt you felt lead you to seek the ways of bringing yourself some peace that you did._

_You matter to me, Helena, and I’m worried about you. Whether it’s with us at the Warehouse or far away, I want you to be happy and find a way to lessen your pain. If writing to me helps, and whether or not you send the letters, then that’s what you should do. However, I am also begging you to find someone else to talk to. I can ask Vanessa about a therapist near you if that would help._

_I’ve written this assuming that you’re staying in Boone, because you seemed fairly adamant on that point before. I don’t know if that’s part of your self-punishment too, or if it’s someplace you truly want to be, but you need to know that you can come back to the Warehouse at any time. It might give Artie a heart attack at first, but we all love you and want you here if here is where you want to be._

_Even if you never meant me to read your letter, I’m glad that I got to, and I hope to God you write back. Be well._

_Love,_

_Myka_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's Myka's reply! I'm not certain how long this is going to end up being, but both HG and Myka are working through a lot of stuff, so nothing is going to be resolved immediately. There are a few questions that I'm leaving open to be answered later, but let me know what you're wondering about in the comments so I can make sure I wrap everything up by the end :) Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myka finally receives a reply from HG, but it doesn't really make her worry any less.

Nearly two weeks after she had sent her reply to Helena’s letter, Myka started to see the concerned looks that Pete was shooting her way. Knowing that Pete was usually the last to see that something was wrong, she then managed to catch Artie staring at her thoughtfully more than once. Luckily, if Claudia could tell that something was amiss, she managed to keep acting as normally as she ever did.

Myka, however, could not resume her usual routine. Every morning seemed to start earlier than the one before, until even she could not explain away the hours she kept. Rising with the sun was merely unusual; rising well before it was sign of something else entirely.

The volume of work that she managed to complete nearly doubled in those weeks, and even Pete ventured a comment that he had never thought she could read any more than she already did, but she had proven him wrong. Myka brushed it off as his usual hyperbole. Two days later, after she closed the cover on _La Divina Commedia_ less than twenty-four hours after picking it up, she offered up a silent apology for doubting him.

The endless rounds of distractions were all poor substitutes. Every artifact file she read seemed to lead back to Warehouse 12, or London, or writers, or time, or any item on an ever-growing list of things that ended with thoughts of Helena. Every book she picked up was one that she had seen HG read once, or was by a contemporary of the Victorian writer, or had some quote that would once have sparked a lively discussion between the two women. She could feel the need to hear Helena’s reply like an itch that sat under her skin, unable to be soothed.

One day, Myka sat in the library finishing up the report for their latest artifact. She sat bent over, her glasses nearly flush with the desk.

“Hey!”

Myka yelped and sat bolt upright, scattering paper across the floor with spasming arms.

“Claudia!” she gasped out when she could breathe again. “Don’t do that!”

Claudia gave Myka what the young woman referred to as the ‘side-eye.’

“Calm down, jumpy, geez. You know you’ve been really on-edge lately?” Claudia jumped over to the table and swung herself onto it, crushing several of Myka’s recently-retrieved sheets of paper in the process. “Sorry,” she apologized as she pulled out the offending pages and attempted to straighten them with her hand.

Myka sighed.

“We’ve just had a lot of… stuff… lately,” she started lamely.

Claudia snorted.

“That belt on Tuesday was the first ping we’ve had all week. What stuff do you have that I don’t have?” Claudia asked with mock-indignation.

“What do you want, Claudia?” Myka asked with wide eyes, throwing her hands into the air.

The younger woman studied her knowingly for a moment, making a tinge of red rise in Myka’s face.

“Oookay, _don’t_ ask questions of the grumpy agent,” she said sarcastically, even going so far as to mime making a note on her hand. A hand that Myka now saw contained an envelope.

Myka raised a hand and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word, Claudia jumped off the table and handed her the letter with a flourish.

“Just came to give you this. Abigail thought you’d want to see it right away.”

Myka looked and saw the familiar handwriting on the envelope, including the return address. She looked up at Claudia and tilted her head to the side, asking a silent question.

Claudia sighed with exaggeration. “Your business is none of mine, my lips are sealed, yadda yadda,” she reeled off. Myka could only squint a bit at this roundabout reassurance, but Claudia seemed to have nothing more to say, and turned to go.

“Thank you, I think,” she muttered. She turned her attention to the letter once again, but raised her head when Claudia turned at the door and spoke again.

“Myka—tell her we miss her.” With that, the enigmatic young redhead stumbled artfully out the door.

* * *

 

_My dearest Myka,_

_I was surprised to receive your letter, not least because I did not send my own missive myself. I find it is with trepidation that I read your reply, and that feeling has not left me since I saw my name in your handwriting on the envelope._

_That letter was written as a means of coping with feelings that I do not quite understand, but needed to express in some way. Nonetheless, it was what I needed to say, and I find that I’m glad you were able to read it._

_However, that small gladness does not assuage my uneasiness. I find that I cannot resist responding, thus establishing precedent for a correspondence, but I worry about what such an exchange will do to you, Myka. You say that you would be happier were I to return to the Warehouse, and I have no doubt that you believe that the truth with all your formidable conviction, but I have never brought anything but pain to those I have loved._

_I am not a whole woman, and perhaps not a woman at all. I am one-hundred forty-six years old, of which one-hundred eleven were spent in bronze. Though I could feel every excruciating change that those years wrought in me, I still do not understand them, and I cannot imagine a modern doctor or anyone else who could reverse that kind of damage. Those years took Christina’s death and the other tragedies I wrought and folded them in on themselves a thousand times, kneading and expanding a deep-seated knowledge of my own monstrosity. I had hoped I could emerge from the chrysalis of the bronze a new woman, a woman who finally fit into the world that re-awoke her, but I could not. I remain as I ever was._

_The solution I have arrived at is to remove myself from those situations in which I could do the most harm. I cannot trust myself at the Warehouse, and I cannot expose you to the dangers I pose. One way or another, you would pay the price for what I am. I have been attempting to pay the price all my life, and yet the debt only grows. My life as it is now is the only way I know to hold off the tide of red I fear I cannot stop adding to my ledger._

_I know that you are stubborn, and that you will not heed me, but I beg you not to write to me. Please consider this letter my final goodbye, and burn it if you can bring yourself to do so. Close the door on me and be happy, please. Knowing that you have done so will make me feel as though I have finally achieved some good in the world, if only by association with you._

_All my love,_

_Helena_

* * *

 

Myka threw down the letter and wiped at the beads of mixed sadness and anger gathering in the corners of her eyes. She held her hands flat on the table and attempted to breathe normally, but instead found herself stumbling to her feet and moving quickly out of the room.

When she reached Abigail’s room, she stopped outside the door and counted silently in her head. She consciously unclenched her hands and relaxed her tense muscles before she knocked.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Myka.” A few seconds passed. “Can I come—“ Myka was cut off by the pale light that darted out of the room as the door opened.

“What’s wrong?” Abigail stood before her in sweatpants and a t-shirt, barefoot, her eyeglasses atop her head. She looked as though she had been in the middle of a long slide towards sleep.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Myka started, suddenly self-conscious of the fact that her appearance must be somewhat frightening. “I just, I wanted to ask you about someone.”

Abigail’s face creased further with concern, and she stood aside wordlessly to allow Myka to enter. She gestured at the overstuffed armchair in the corner and settled cross-legged on the bed as Myka sat down.

“What’s wrong, Myka?” she asked again, this time more softly. Myka stared at the corner of the ceiling, unable to keep her tears at bay again.

“I’m worried,” she said finally, whispering through a thick throat. “I just, she… I can’t—“ she shook her head, unable to explain fully.

Abigail just sat quietly, looking at Myka, who finally met her gaze.

“Is this about that letter?”

Myka nodded wordlessly and gulped.

“It was from HG, wasn’t it? That’s what Claudia said.” The other woman’s voice was soft and soothing, as was her hand when she reached out for Myka’s knee. The touch was supportive and warm, but not overwhelming as Myka knew such comfort could become. The gesture reminded her again that Abigail had an understanding of pain and trials borne of thousands of hours spent with dozens of patients. With that thought, she made her decision.

“Just read it,” she managed to get out. She handed the letter to Abigail. “She wrote another one before, but it’s in my room.”

Abigail accepted the letter with a hint of surprise in her eyes, but did not look at it.

“Are you sure?”

Myka turned her gaze downward before responding.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Okay.” With that, Abigail patted Myka’s knee and turned her attention to Helena’s letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments. In particular, what do you think about Myka letting Abigail read the letter?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helena talks to Nate; Myka's second letter is delivered by less-than-traditional means.

Helena was an intelligent woman. It was the one fact of which she had remained certain over all the years of her winding life, along with the surety that she had once had a daughter. Unlike the latter fact, however, the former rarely slipped out to cut at her heart in the middle of the night.

It was because of her own certainty of her intelligence that Helena almost immediately discerned how her letter had made its way to Myka. Despite the supernatural way of life to which she had been accustomed, there was another, simpler explanation.

The details of this exposition took mere minutes to appear in her mind; acting on that knowledge took several weeks. Once she had resigned herself to a longed-for yet frightening correspondence with Myka and mailed her second letter to seal that pact with her own devils, Helena turned her attentions to another lurking problem, one which could not be held at arm’s-length with distance or reams of paper.

She knocked softly at the door.

When she had first moved in, Helena had moved confidently through the house, claiming space with each stride, each motion a physical expression of her dominance over life. No door kept her out, no space was even given a vague thought of being off-limits, for she lived there. Belonged there. And even if she awoke at night in a panic, unable to recognize her surroundings, it was only what was to be expected after decades in the bronze.

It was different now, and so she knocked. Adelaide always burst in with all the energy of an eight-year-old who has no notion of doubt, and so the occupant of the room could only expect one other. Nevertheless, Helena raised her voice in a soft attempt to reclaim something of the space in that house. In that world.

“Nate? It’s me. It’s Helena.”

There was silence, and a hesitant step away from the door, and then there was a quiet, reluctant “come in,” and Helena found herself crossing the Rubicon into Nate’s study.

Weeks before, nearly two months ago now, just after Myka and Pete left, they had sat down to talk. Nate had demanded it, commanded that she justify her presence in his life, in the life of his daughter. She could not blame him, but she could not halt the divide the conversation placed between them either. What started as a line in the sand, a silent plea that Nate trust her and be on her side, had deepened into a chasm of ringing silence that only Adelaide ventured to cross anymore.

And so, although she saw him nearly every day at breakfast and on the weekends for Adelaide’s various activities, Helena’s first impression of Nate when she stepped into the room was that she had not seen him in months. He looked completely different. He was still clean-shaven, in khakis and a button-up, socks but no shoes, just like he preferred while at home; still, he was different. Perhaps it was posture, or expression, but it was most certainly a change.

“May I speak with you?”

He stared at her for a moment over the dim light of his desk-lamp, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, and then nodded assent.

“Sure, sit down,” he answered quietly, taking his glasses off and gesturing with them to the chair across his desk. Helena sat down with the feeling of being in a business meeting, and had the absurd notion that they were about to divide up their assets as if in divorce, but with emotional baggage rather than tangible belongings.

When she shook these thoughts, Nate was sitting, looking at her with an expectant, if guarded, expression.

“I’m sorry,” she started _(for so much, oh, for everything, Nate, I’m so sorry)_ , “I know you’re busy.”

“It’s nothing that can’t wait.” And indeed, it appeared that he was willing to wait her out until she explained. He had to be tired of constantly filling in the outlines of her life to fit his, now that he knew that what he had drawn was not even close to reality.

Though it was perhaps not the most diplomatic of ways to begin, Helena chose to start with the matter at the fore of her mind.

“You sent my letter to Myka, didn’t you?” she asked softly. She stared at the tight clasping pattern of her fingers and waited for his reply.

“Yes.”

She looked up, and his eyes were on her with a clarity that she had never quite seen from him before. The lucidity spurred her next question.

“Why?” What could have been an accusation came out as an unobtrusive plea for his help in understanding the mess they had built.

He sighed heavily, and it was his turn not to meet her eyes.

“You and Myka, you… she understood you. From the moment she walked into this house.”

Helena sat silently, unable to do anything but watch the water spill over the dam she had built months ago.

“Nate, I—“

“I never understood you like that. I never even knew you, did I?” His frustration began to show in the strained tone of his voice and the grip of his hands on the desk, the knuckles too white to be resting. “I thought you were Emily. And you’re really this other woman, this HG, or Helena, or whatever it is, and—“ He stopped himself with a sharp turn of his head. Helena could almost see him silently counting to ten, just as he had told Adelaide to do instead of yelling, countless times.

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “I thought I was Emily. I was trying so hard to be Emily. I’m still trying.”

“Well, don’t!” The counting was to no avail, and Nate had abandoned his attempts to curb his anger. “I know you love my daughter, that’s always been clear to me, and that’s the only reason you’re still in this house.” His face fell, and Helena added a bullet to this most recent addition she had made to the list of atrocities she had committed. “I always just assumed that that extended to me, too, but I guess I should have listened every time you told Adelaide not to make assumptions.”

Helena sat quietly, gripping her fingers against each other as if to hold something else together too. It was something that could not be held, though, as a monster cannot be caged forever. Once again, Helena had tried desperately not to hurt those she loved, but had instead wrought a wider swath of destruction behind her for the trying.

“What can I do?” It was a general question, one that might be applied to a dozen scenarios currently playing out in her life: her residence in Nate’s house, for it surely could not be called hers any longer; her relationship to Adelaide; her correspondence with Myka. She desperately wanted to have the answers to all, but got only what Nate could give.

“You can stop lying.” His voice had a touch of bitterness, but more of exhaustion; she was not the only one tired of this situation.

And she was tired of it. She was a traveler in more than fame and moniker; she ached to return home, to sleep in her own bed, eat her own food, and fall senselessly into the seamless rhythm of life that was woven into her cotton instincts. She had lost all past ropes and firm anchors of her time and sailed forth into seas that, although deceptively calm, still gave her no way to steer through this life.

Because she could do nothing else, Helena leaned forward.

“I will.” It was said with conviction, although Helena had no idea how to keep the promise. “Thank you.”

Nate scoffed. “For what?”

Helena studied the front of Nate’s desk.

“For giving me a home. For allowing me to be part of Adelaide’s life.” She cleared her throat. “For sending that letter. It needed to be sent, though I am still not certain if the outcome will be for the better or not.”

“Please stop.”

Helena’s eyes rose, and she was confronted with the painful vision of Nate, his face tight, looking back at her.

“That’s not what we are. You can stay here, but I would appreciate it—“ he cut himself off to clear his throat. “I can’t talk to you, not like this. We can’t be friends right now, and I can’t help you.”

Helena shrank at that, although she understood. She stood slowly, shakily.

“I see. I—Thank you.” And then, just before she shut the door, because she could not leave without saying it again, and even once would not even begin to be enough: “I’m so terribly sorry.”

Myka’s second letter blessedly came the next day.

* * *

 

_Dear Helena,_

_Your letter frightened me. I had hoped that I could help you to see that you’re not a monster, and that everything that has happened to you has not been your fault, but I worry that you can’t see that only from my letters._

_I don’t know exactly what to say, and I’m scared that I’m going to make it worse._

_You are my hero, Helena. First it was as a writer, then as an agent, then as a woman, and now, all three. I’m in awe of what you’ve been able to do in your life, especially through such crippling pain. I can’t watch you dismiss all the good you’ve done while you blame yourself for things outside your control._

_Though you’d think the above would be enough, I’m also worried that you’ll be mad at me for the way this letter was delivered. I hope you understand that I had to do something. I’ll let Abigail explain. No matter how angry you are, please write back to me, or call me, email me, send smoke signals, I don’t care. Let me know you’re alright._

_I love you._

_Love,_

_Myka_

* * *

 

When she read the last paragraph of Myka’s message, Helena brow furrowed even further. She pulled out the envelope from behind the letter and examined it. Quickly, she realized that there was no stamp.

She strode quickly to the front door and flung it open. As she paced down the front walk, the driver’s door of a large SUV swung open and a woman stepped out.

“Am I to presume you are Abigail?” HG asked stridently.

“And you’re HG. You’d like to know who I am and what I’m doing here.” The other woman met her gaze steadily. Her presence exuded calm and serenity, and Helena wondered if this was what puppies felt around the Dog-Whisperer she had seen in her forays into afternoon television.

“Well, I should bloody well think so,” HG muttered as she turned to head back up the walk.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HG and Abigail start to talk, HG responds to Myka's letter, and Myka decides to confide in a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to beatricethecat and especially lazyroughdrafts for lovely conversations about Myka and Helena and where they're coming from!

“I don’t know what to say to her anymore,” Helena sighed quietly.

Abigail continued to study Helena’s face just as attentively as Helena had been examining her hands for the last twenty minutes.

“What did you used to say to her?” she asked softly.

“We used to discuss… oh, all sorts of things. Literature, metaphysics, everything. And the Warehouse. Usually everything, all at once. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who could track the leaps and connections my mind makes. I suppose she sees them too. She’s much more intelligent than I am, really, it’s just that I’ve been around…” HG looked up briefly and the shadow of a smirk crossed her face “… somewhat longer than she has, shall we say.”

“Does that bother you?” Abigail asked. She used the same tone, but there was a pause before that indicated perhaps a more important question.

HG’s face changed, and she brushed off the conversational depth that was required of that question with a casual wave.

“Well, I have to say of all these happening lately, my longevity does not top the list of bothersome topics,” HG remarked breezily. “In fact, one might say that having a strange woman claiming to be a therapist appear unannounced on one’s doorstep at the behest of one’s old employer would be rather more bothersome.” Her voice had reacquired some of its previous biting jocularity. Abigail accepted the change in conversational topic and tempo with a graceful nod.

“I’ve told you, HG, I’m not here as an employee of the Warehouse. I’m here because Myka asked me to be. She’s worried about you. She wants to make sure you’re alright, and that you have someone to talk to. That’s all.” Abigail’s voice remained calm, and she watched passively as HG paced slowly around the mid-day kitchen.

“But you’ve not just up and left the Warehouse, nor the bed and breakfast. You’ve had permission from someone, I suppose. Mrs. Frederick, perhaps? After all, they can’t very well leave the place unattended.” Her pacing was picking up, but then she spun and stilled to face Abigail. “Tell me, do they still call it Leena’s? Or is it Abigail’s now?”

Abigail ignored the dig, although there was an immediate hint of shame in HG’s eyes and a droop to her shoulders that indicated that the British woman had added her cruel remark to a teetering pile of other sins weighing on her.

“When Myka asked me to come, I was planning to ask for some vacation time, but Mrs. Frederick showed up out of nowhere, literally nowhere, and very enigmatically told me to take some time off,” Abigail offered lightly to the woman now leaning thoughtfully onto the kitchen island.

This time, it was HG who accepted the change in conversational tone.

“Yes, she does that in quite a literal fashion, doesn’t she?” she murmured with a light smile. Then her face darkened. “And Artie?”

“Doesn’t know,” Abigail assured her. Then, delicately, “May I ask why it concerns you that he might know?”

HG resumed pacing, although it was now more thoughtful than agitated.

“Arthur and I have had our differences,” she muttered. “He hasn’t always approved of me. For good reason,” she added in response to Abigail’s raised eyebrow. She abruptly gave up pacing in favor of digging through the cupboards. “Would you like tea?”

“What reasons?”

“General health and calming effects?” HG replied flippantly.

Abigail waited.

With her back still to Abigail, HG momentarily turned motionless. “I would imagine trying to destroy the world had something to do with it,” she postulated quietly in the direction of the breakfast cereals.

Abigail waited a moment before saying, “Yes, I’d like some tea.”

* * *

 

_My dearest Myka,_

_I feel I should begin by stating that I am most emphatically not angry with you, since you seemed so distressed over that matter in your last letter. I am, however, perhaps confused as to my own feelings._

_I confess that I like Abigail, although I’m afraid I rather interrogated her upon her arrival. I was concerned that she was there at the behest of the Regents, as you can well imagine. I apologize for not trusting your judgment and discretion. I would do well to bear in mind that you always do as you feel is best for me._

_Because you are so selfless, I must ask one more favor to add to the long string of them that I believe I shall carry all my days. ‘I wear the chains I forged in life’ and so forth. Abigail must have unscrewed my head rather more than I thought for me to make a Dickens reference, but I need you to understand that I will never be able to repay you for what you have done for me. For that reason, and because you would never do so of your own volition, I must ask that you not wait for me._

_While speaking with Abigail, I came to see that there is a small chance that I have a possibility for a life unburdened, or at least less burdened, with the weight of my past. That new life, however, would be long in coming, and I fear the old one will subject me to terrible death throes before I’m free of it, if by some miracle I ever am._

_You should not wait, Myka. My own experience notwithstanding, this life is not long, and I cannot bear to drag you behind me through a bloody swamp of my own making. Please, now that you have gifted me with yet another good turn that I do not and never shall deserve, forget me as I have always begged you to do. I will survive as I always have, and I shall feel the smallest bit lighter knowing that whatever happens to me, I did not manage to rip the wings off the second angel I have been lucky enough to encounter in my life._

_My gratitude must grow tiresome, but I shall continue to say this until my last day: thank you for everything you have done for me._

_All my love,_

_Helena_

* * *

 

“Hey, Mykes, whatcha got there?” He snatched at the letter, but Myka ripped it back from his hands.

“Pete!” She tried to hit him, but he had already jumped out of reach in a move born of long practice.

“Okay, touchy, got it,” he sang as he danced away into the next room.

On one of his frequent snack runs to the kitchen, Pete had passed Myka sitting transfixed at the dining room table of the bed and breakfast. Despite his heavy-handed attempts to figure out what mill-stone Myka had hung around her neck now, he was running out of both ideas and Myka’s patience.

“Hey, Mykes?” he called from the ‘fridge. When she didn’t answer, he poked his head back through the door. “Myka?”

“Yes, Pete?” Myka sighed, now staring at the tabletop.

“Whatever it is that’s bothering you—“ he began.

“There’s nothing bothering me,” she interjected too quickly.

Pete squinted. “Okay, well, whatever’s _not_ bothering you, you can talk to me about it when you’re ready.” With that, he retreated back into the kitchen to explore the offerings of more cupboards.

Myka sighed at her friend’s astuteness.

“And what makes you think I’d talk to you if something _were_ bothering me?” she demanded under her breath.

“Because that’s what we do. And I give awesome advice,” Pete bragged loudly from the next room. “And I have awesome hearing too, so stop muttering like I can’t hear you.”

Myka only sighed more loudly when Pete opted to plop down beside her rather than return to the television.

“Are you going to be annoying about it?” she probed.

“Only if you don’t tell me,” he responded. Myka noted that out of consideration for her, he had answered between bites rather than speaking through a mouthful of food, and that tipped the balance.

“Fine,” she exhaled. “But you do not get to mock me, and you do not tell anyone else.”

Pete swallowed a large bite of sandwich.

“Deal.”


	6. Chapter 6

After Myka was done telling Pete about the letters slipping between her and Helena, about Helena’s words, her own worry, and finally that Abigail had gone to Boone, he sat silent, staring at the dark table-top like it held the secrets of the universe.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” Myka breathed emphatically. When she looked at her partner, however, his gaze still had not left the table. “Pete?” Myka queried carefully. Pete looked up at that, his mouth open slightly and his eyes wide.

“I’m just trying to understand, Mykes,” he began. “I mean, anyone could see that you two had a… a _thing_ ,” he explained with a shrug and head wag specific to Pete. Then he grew more serious. “I guess I just thought that after we got back from Boone, she’d leave you alone and you could move on.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Myka demanded. The vehemence of her voice covered its shake, but barely.

Pete sighed and stared at the table between his spread hands.

“She keeps hurting you, Mykes,” he declared, smacking his hands lightly up and down on the polished wood. Then, with emphasis, “Like a _lot_.”

“Pete,” Myka began, but his words darted out in front of hers.

“No, Mykes, just… I’m trying to be here for you, and I’m trying to see it your way, but what I really wanna say is that you should burn the letter and forget about her.” His words were low but passionate, and he glanced up at Myka near the end, as if gauging her response.

“You’re too stubborn to listen to me,” he continued with a sigh. “And I get that. So I’m trying to be here for you, now. But it’s hard to watch you get hurt.”

Myka’s hand settled on his shoulder in a much gentler manner than her usual indignant assaults.

“Thank you, Pete,” she murmured. “That means a lot.” And after a moment, “But you’re right. I can’t forget about her, either.” She sighed heavily.

Pete gave her a half-smile.

“I’m always right!” When Myka tossed up a spirited eyebrow in a silent question, he backtracked. “Usually right.” The eyebrow remained. “Okay, you’re usually more right.”

“Better,” Myka commented with a grin, but it disappeared suddenly a moment later. She sighed heavily.

“She wants me to forget about her too,” she told him, waving the letter. “She keeps telling me I’m better off without her.”

Myka stared at the letter until Pete spoke again, and when she looked at him, the light impression of the letter floated over his face in her vision.

“Maybe you would be,” he admitted. Myka had caught onto his somewhat backwards methods of articulating his support for her and waited for him to complete his thoughts. “But you met her, and you guys just… clicked,” he emphasized, gesturing futilely. “And you’ve been weird and _sad_ since she, you know, tried to blow up the world and stuff,” he added, trying but failing to downplay the latter point. “And when we thought we had to destroy the coin thing. Plus that time when HG _wasn’t_ HG and liked cats.”

Myka shook her head, entertained despite herself.

“Yeah, _that_ was why I was sad,” she teased.

Pete smiled briefly, but Myka was proud to see that he retained a certain gravity.

“You _were_ sad, Mykes. You _are_ sad, still, a little. But in Boone, when you saw her again…” he trailed off, obviously struggling with something. He turned his whole body to face her. “I’m a little jealous, you know? I wish I had that with someone.”

Myka placed her hand on Pete’s shoulder.

“You’ll get that, Pete.” She lowered her head to peer up at his downturned face. “How did this turn into me comforting you? We were talking about _my_ problems.”

Pete laughed briefly, then again, visibly regaining his balance in the conversation.

“Right!” he exclaimed with a clap of his hands as he sprung to his feet. “I’m just gonna grab snacks,” he explained, pointing as he slid toward the kitchen, from which he raised his voice to continue. “Can’t talk about your love life without some serious carbs!”

Even though he could not see her, Myka’s eye-roll was truly impressive. Then, just for good measure, she added a loud scoff that could not be mistaken even from the distance of the kitchen.

* * *

 

Hours and perhaps a few beers later, Myka followed Pete’s insistent advice and sat down to write her confident response. Her handwriting was perhaps a little less perfect than was her custom, but her directness balanced out the difference.

_Dear Helena,_

_Please know that I say this with love: you are really starting to piss me off. I am a grown woman and I make my own decisions. I’m with you on this in whatever way you want me to be. You’re not ‘dragging me through a bloody swamp,’ I’m wading through it with you. I’m trying to help you for purely selfish reasons, can’t you see that? I want to be with you. All your demons and your past don’t stop me from wanting that, that’s not why I want them gone. I want them gone because they hurt you and it hurts me to see that. So there you go, I’m the most selfish person in the world and I sent Abigail so that you would feel more in order sooner and come back. Or I could go there. Or anywhere._

_I just want to be where you are. Would you let me do that, please?_

_Love,_

_Myka_

And because, even drunk, she knew herself, she sent the letter before she could think better of it. Poorly worded though it might have been, it was still true.

* * *

 

The next day, as Myka was sitting on the patio trying to recall exactly what she had so foolishly written through the pain of a pounding headache, Artie shuffled out to her.

“When you’ve got a moment, I need you to look at—“ he started, glancing through a sheaf of files before finally looking at her. “—these reports.” He scowled. “You look horrible.”

True, sweatpants, glasses, and bags under the eyes were not her best look. Still, she bristled at the brusque assessment.

“Thanks, Artie,” Myka said with a sarcastic smile. She winced as the headache punched another lightning bolt into her forehead.

He dropped an envelope on the table.

“That came for you,” he threw out as he shambled away. “Do you know when Abigail’s coming back?” His voice floated out from the house, but Myka did not bother to respond. She was too transfixed by the sight of the envelope.

With a cautious look back toward the house, she hastily slit the letter open and began to read, headache forgotten.

_My dearest Myka,_

_I have primarily been a woman of few confidantes, both as a result of necessity and personal preference. I have kept my own counsel, and perhaps that is one reason that my life has progressed as it has thus far._

_Although I was initially resistant to Ms. Abigail’s presence here, and then pleased despite an absolute doubt that she could be of any aid, I find myself ultimately more glad each day that she has come. Even more, I am now cognizant of the good that she could do me. Or rather, as she seems quite insistent that I must be the driving force in any healing measures I undertake, I am now aware of the good that she could help me to do myself._

_As a result of both her counsel and a spirited debate that has been raging in my head for weeks, I have made a decision regarding my living situation. I will be leaving Nate and Adelaide’s house, most likely before you receive this letter. You were correct in saying that it was not a place meant for me, merely a place for what I wished to be. I say merely, but it is not meant to diminish the worth of such a life, only to profess my desire to grapple with myself in my entirety. I fear that such a feat will bear no distraction, as pretending to a life that is not mine has purposefully been for me. What’s more, I have been unfair to both Nate and Adelaide for some period, and it is high time that I leave them to their happiness._

_For the time being, I will be living at the local bed and breakfast where Abigail has also booked a room. She has assured me that the cost is well worth the avoidance of a motel, which I agree sounds infinitely less desirable. And I confess, after my time at Leena’s, this type of temporary residence is somewhat comforting to me._

_Love always,_

_Helena_

 

Myka looked up from the letter, torn between relief at the calm, conversational tone Helena had struck and worry for the upheaval that the words described. She pushed her glasses up her nose to peer at her watch.

It wasn’t too early, she decided. She paced inside and up the stairs, headache banished by her mission, to pluck her phone from the nightstand. As the call rang through, she stood stock still in the morning light from the window. Just as she was about to end the call, the ringing stopped.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Abigail?” Myka began with a dry mouth. “It’s Myka.” She paused. “Can I talk to her?”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Shakepeare's 31st sonnet, and the soundtrack for writing was "Under" by Alex Hepburn.


End file.
